


liar

by dragonsong (NekoAisu)



Series: FFXIV Write 2019 [23]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, Interrogation, Mild Sexual Content, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Other, Patch 4.0: Stormblood Spoilers, Truth Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 22:03:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/dragonsong
Summary: Asahi sas Brutus is a rotten little worm.





	liar

**Author's Note:**

> For FFXIVWrite 2019!
> 
> Day 24 | Unctuous
> 
> Tumblr post here: https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com/post/187945350114/ffxivwrite-2019-prompt-24-liar
> 
> Warnings for: drugging (it’s a truth serum but Still), manhandling/nonconsensual nonsexual touching, improperly negotiated kinks, sexual content (sorta?)

“Given the opportunity to plead guilty and be released to your supervising officer, why do you refuse?” The Warrior of Light rocks back and forth in their chair, waiting for the Garlean ambassador to respond. Past keeping him alive long enough to use his biological readings to unlock and enter the hold where the Doman captives were being kept, they feel no compassion toward him. It’s hard to sympathize with such an unctuous excuse for a man. 

(What type of filial child kills their own sibling? Who could love an untouchable superior more than their own life? What type of hypocrisy does it take for him to laud peace and level his blade at the common people?)

They find him absolutely reprehensible.

When they question him, all he does is turn up his nose and suffer through round after round of Doman interrogators pressing him for information. The Warrior is their last resort. 

“I was given strict instructions to make you talk, but I am quite sure you’re too uncivilized for it. I’ll make this easier—“ they snatch a small vial from a shower of sparks and offer it to him casually “—here. It won’t be betrayal if you have no choice, right?”

Asahi recognizes the pulse of aether when the small glass container rests against the tips of his fingers. They placed it within reach of his bound hands, an invitation to blasphemy against his lord and savior. He would not take it. With a cruel smile born of desperation, he knocks it to the floor and stomps, feeling he glass shatter under his heel. “Oops. My _apologies.”_

“Don’t worry,” they reply, pulling out a good few replacements, “I have plenty more.”

They try again, this time with new platitudes and charm. It takes eight wasted potables before they grab a serum, get up from their chair, and sit down on the table before him. Taking Asahi’s head in their hands, they ignore his thrashing to press the sides of his jaw until he mouth opens, jamming a couple armored fingers between his molars to keep him from attempting to avoid being dosed. They pour the potion down his throat and then shift to remove their fingers and hold his jaw shut. He writhes and attempts to spit, huffing through his nose but making no move to swallow. “Stubborn, aren’t you?”

They hold his nose and wait until his eyes begin to get hazy and they see him stutter through a swallow. They release him and send their apologies to the Twelve for the obvious beginnings of bruises all along his jawline from their grip. Asahi pants for breath and spits curses at them before they peter out to angry wheezes. 

“Good boy. You don’t hate me as much as you believe, do you?” They flick the unused vials into the unseen space of their inventory like breathing. Effortless. Familiar. To Asahi, whose brain is stuck on truths instead of carefully constructed lies, they are _terrifying. _

He believes he won’t bend to their will, but the predatory way they spin knives on their fingertips still chills him to the core. It’s a calm, patient type of hunger. Absolutely nothing about them is like his lord (his _love_) and yet he feels the same part of his brain ignite when they turn their eyes from their wickedly sharp blades to lock onto him. They smile and offer, “Would you like some incentive?”

He shakes his head, not daring to open his mouth when words of deference wish to pour forth. He feels _disgusting._ To be so weak as to bow his head and kiss the hand of whoever looks at him with his lord’s familiar brand of ferocious egoism. It is a mark against his virtues. 

“Are you sure? I have a lovely collection on poisons that need testing and a captive assistant who can’t help but speak truths. You’d make a perfect subject to see if my new formulation of Ishgard’s _dragonkiller_ is any better than the last.” They keep fussing with their knives as if splitting their attention between his frustrated glaring and the swing of the blade is of no concern (as if he warrants more attention than the sharpened bits of metal more than sharp enough to cut deeply into their fingers if handled wrong). Asahi bites his own tongue to keep from answering their taunt. 

_“As if an Eorzean savage could make me speak. I will not betray him.”_

They sit and watch until Asahi can feel his skin prickling with discomfort. He’s used to being glanced upon, a suppliant at the foot of his god, and their quiet stare sets him ablaze. He is not fully aware of himself when he says, in a voice too honeyed to be a lie, “Please.”

“Ah, the man of the past three hours speaks at last,” they tease. “What a lovely voice he has.” They flick their knives into the same shimmering aether the potions disappeared into and stand from their chair. Asahi can feel the heavy thump of their boots as they approach him and place a hand on his chin, tilting it up toward them. Their voice is an imitation of intimacy when they ask, “What is it you plead for, little soldier? Tell me and I can provide.”

And he crumbles to pieces, stuck between the devil of the Warrior’s promise and the deep blue of their aether where it swirls with the threat of further harm. He tells then what he wishes and they give it to him piece by piece until he is all but whimpering into their neck. Vulnerable. A betrayer. They have not unlocked the cuffs keeping his hands bound on the tabletop, but they have undone the many clasps and buttons of his borrowed uniform until even the stale swirl of air is enough to make him tremble. 

(He wishes they were his lord, that Zenos considered him worthy enough to take pity on his need for carnal affections, but they remind him it is _their_ touch leaving him wanting with every whispered false affection. They never call him by his name.)

He leans in when they get close enough, aiming to steal something from them in return only to have them laugh, back up, and give him a sickening simper. “How _honest_ of you, trying for a kiss. I wonder how much more you will be in a few hours. Well, until then.”

They swap their heavy uniform for a new set of well-fitted armor, stride to the door, and exit. They leave Asahi heaving, dizzy from the sensations still thrumming in memory of their touch and the way they simply walked out on him like he is something to be used and discarded, and he feels the anxiety settle in the longer he is left alone. With his clothing most of the way off, bunching in the corner of an elbow and rubbing against the welts their nails left on his back whenever he shifts, every voice filtering in from the hallway is a threat. 

The Warrior would return alone, he hoped, and was not sure if it was the truths forced from him by the potion or an actual want to preserve what little respect he has left to his name. He has naught else to do but wait.

**Author's Note:**

> xiv tunglr | https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com/  
main | https://kiriami-sama.tumblr.com/  
main | https://twitter.com/flamingacekiri


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